Personal Thoughts And Private Musings
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Sherlock is aware that something he said has hurt John's feelings, and he spends the day thinking about how his description of the doctor had been far from accurate. A piece of smutty Johnlock in response to a challenge from Thedragonaunt - rated M, just to be safe


**In the aftermath of a hilarious conversation in Mrs Hudson's Kitchen, I was challenged by Thedragonaunt to write a Study in Sturdiness and Studliness, from a smutty angle. I confess I've had fun writing this, and must warn you - if you don't like smutty johnlock, don't read it as I'd hate to offend.  
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't profit, just play!**

Stretched out on the couch, barely dressed, his pyjama bottoms sitting low on his hips, his t-shirt risen above his navel, Sherlock pondered John's hurt expression from the night before.

They had been at a crime scene. A mere five, but it had originally showed promise of being a seven or eight. Of course, the wife had arranged the murder, her son had carried it out (he'd never liked his stepfather, just his money), and each had given the other an alibi.

John had followed him through the house, up and down the stairs, in and out of the rooms, even running back up to the bedroom to double-check some information for him. So when Donovan had made her snarky remark about wearing the poor man out, Sherlock had smirked and snapped back

"Don't be more stupid than necessary Sergeant, John's sturdy enough, he won't break that easily."

From the corner of his eye he'd seen the expression cross the other man's face, but when he turned to him John was the epitome of an observant and interested sidekick. And throughout the journey home he'd made no comment about it, going straight to the kitchen on arrival and making tea for them both as was the norm.

Sherlock had returned an hour or so later from his mind palace, where he had been trying to identify that fleeting expression, and realised that he was alone in the room. He sat up with a jolt, his eyes going immediately to the coat rack, blowing out a relieved breath as he saw John's coat still hanging there, his shoes neatly standing side by side underneath it.

Gliding along the hallway he eased open the bedroom door, and was quite surprised (and a little disappointed) to see John already in bed, snoring softly. Promising himself he'd speak to John in the morning, he swiftly stripped and slid into bed, falling asleep within minutes.

But this morning when Sherlock awoke John was gone, leaving behind a brief note saying he would be at the clinic today and not to forget to eat something if he plans to stay alive long enough to solve more of Lestrades problems.

Two hours (and no breakfast) later, he was only just getting to grips with the problem, thanks to the wisdom of one Martha Hudson.

Knocking but not waiting for an answer, she trotted into the flat clutching a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread.

"Have you two had a tiff?" she asked, putting both items away in the kitchen and coming to stand over her favourite tenant. "John went out very early, and he wasn't his usual cheery self. Said if I saw you to tell you he might be late home."

This titbit of information caused his icy silver eyes to meet her warm brown ones, and he read sympathy there, and a degree of understanding.

"Sherlock, whatever it is you've said to hurt him, he'll forgive you if you show him you you're sorry."

His eyes widened.

"That's it! You are brilliant, Mrs H!"

"Yes, I dare say, now don't you lay there moping. I'll pop up later with some lunch for you – just this once mind – John will be upset if you don't eat."

So that was it. John had been hurt by something that had been said – more to the point, by something _he_ had said. Running over the conversations of the evening, it didn't take him long to work out the exact word that had caused the hurt, although it baffled him why it should have done so.

xXx

When Mrs Hudson came up again at lunchtime, carrying a bowl of soup and some crusty bread, Sherlock plastered on his most winning smile, straightened his clothing and sat up to eat.

"Mrs Hudson, I have a question for you." The young man arranged his features in his most innocent and pleading expression. As usual, the landlady fell for it, sitting in John's chair and clasping her hands in her lap.

"What image does the word 'Sturdy' conjure up for you?"

A wistful smile graced her softly lined face.

"Toddlers learning to walk, trying to run. My sister's boy when he was little was a sturdy lad, all chubby legs and dimples…"

"Of course!" Sherlock leapt to his feet and hustled the elderly woman out of the door, much to her consternation. "Thank you Mrs Hudson – that's just what I needed."

Ignoring the rest of the dinner she had prepared for him he flung himself back onto the couch, stretching his long body, and contemplating Johns.

He had no trouble picturing his partner's solid body, the skin smooth and firm, its only flaw the scar on his shoulder.

In his mind's eye he watched the muscles flex and ripple as his body moved over him, or under him, or against him, the power in his arms tightly controlled as they held his own weight – or Sherlock's – guiding, lifting, or supporting, always strong, always reliable.

The curves and dips of Pectorals, usually hidden by layers of t-shirts and check shirt, proudly uncovered for his eyes only, drawing the eyes and leading them down to solid yet slightly rounded belly – not a six-pack, that really wasn't John's style, but every inch exuded strength, even the trail of hair that led to that reddish blond nest around that solid erection…..strength – the word that in many ways defined John Watson.

As the image turned and walked away, he watched the smooth buttocks that topped muscular thighs, toned (as were the well-formed calves) from years of running through the streets of London, following Sherlock, chasing London's criminal fraternity.

Drawing in a deep breath, he pictured his hands smoothing oil across those broad shoulders, along the arms that held him close in the night, around those buttocks that tensed and thrust against him, and down those thighs and calves that wrapped around him.

Losing himself in his private musings, Sherlock breathed deep and evenly, his nostrils flaring, his body reacting to his memory driven imagination, leaving him feeling weak and aching.

A subtle hint of antiseptic and disinfectant hand scrub alerted him to the presence of his doctor, returned from the clinic. As he opened his eyes he noted that John was standing studying him closely, from the slightly breathless rise of his chest to the obvious erection his thoughts had encouraged, and he was looking confused and a little lost – still hurt.

In an instant he was on his feet, his hands clasping John's biceps, his grey eyes boring into wide navy blue eyes, trying to convey sincerity.

"John," Sherlock's voice was deep and rich, like melted dark chocolate running over John's senses. "I was wrong – my choice of words last night –I should never have called you sturdy, it just wasn't right."

"No, you shouldn't." John agreed, not breaking eye contact, not daring to look down.

"No, I _should_ have said that you are studly."

"What?"

"Studly, it's an American word John, it means having a well-developed and muscular physique, handsome and sexually attractive."

John flicked his eyes downwards at last, then looked back at Sherlock.

"And that? You have that because…?"

"I have that because I took all those definitions of that word, and I applied them, one at a time, to you."


End file.
